


Pulse for the bloodless, relief for the relentless

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bonefucking, Canon Asexual Character, Gore, Mind Control, Monsterfucking, Multi, Other, Parasitophilia, See Through Sex, Sex Positive Ace, Smut, Spitroast, Tentacles, Teratophilia, Trans-Female Character, Trans-Male Character, Voyeurism, god gave me the gift of hands and that’s your problem now, gore porn, sex at terminal velocity, webs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Even if none of the Avatare are truly human anymore, if they ever were, pleasure is pleasure.(Or: All of the avatars have at least one orgasm because I say so and you can’t stop me. Minus the buried, fucks gets no fucks.)
Relationships: Anabelle Cane/Some random fucko, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jane Prentiss/worms, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Simon Fairchild, Maxwell Raynor/Manuela Domingues, Micheal/Helen, Nikola Orsinov/Breekon and Hope, Oliver Banks/Deathtacles, Peter Luka/Elias Bouchard, The Distortion/The Distortion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	Pulse for the bloodless, relief for the relentless

**Author's Note:**

> Kinks: Bloodplay, Pred/Prey, S and M, voyeurism (non-consensual, sorta? She’s not watching anyone do anything nasty but it is watching so eh?) mentions of gore, edging.

She was so fucking close. She’d been stalking this one for months and he was just in his god damn apartment like nothing was wrong and she wasn’t watching his every move from another one across the street. 

She wasn’t gonna kill him, not yet. The hunt was just beginning, you don’t try and chase something into its den to kill it. You let it wander on its own terms into the waiting bear trap of your jaws. That type of proactiveness was more Slaughter. 

Daisy was just sitting, watching who walked in the street and this mans evening routine. Despite her lack of movement, every muscle in her quivered as if she were holding a strenuous pose. Even with the distance, the rain that made what little light made it into the apartment green, the multiple closed windows, she smelled him. He smelt like raw meat, like something Flesh-Touched, and it reminded her of steak just placed on the grill, blood evacuating it as it cooks. 

She salivated, and when she licked her lips her canines almost cut her tongue.

She knew she would be disappointed when the hunt ended, she was not built for conclusions. The Hunt reveled in the hunt, the fear-stink of uncertain prey. And oh how she had spiced his terror. Still human enough to feel that terror, to think that he’d seen short blonde hair a few too many times, that he had definitely not left his front door unlocked. He was still so oblivious, perhaps he would never even become a monster. Still, in her mind that made no difference. Prevention is better than cure, they always say.

Daisy was so absorbed in imagining how much longer she could draw this out that she didn’t even notice how slick her thighs had become, a sudden heat taking her when a shift in her seat revealed the wet mess. With a feral ferocity that spoke to desperation and an animal abhorrence to anything that was not her own hide she shed her clothes, half ripping some and tossing them into all corners of the room. Her eyes did not leave the man once, and in the half-light of storm ridden twilight they almost gleamed with reflection. She slid her hand down her body, mussing the happy trail of straw blonde hair leading down her naval and tangling the curly darker hairs that crowned her pussy.

At the first touch of slick heat she writhed, impossibly aroused by her own anticipation. She did not penetrate, barely even moved. She had to make it last, and with the slow rotation of her wrist and swipe of a finger pad she savored the too-slow climb to climax. 

One slow swipe, then another, then another. Barely enough contact to register. But still it did, minuscule shocks running up and down the nerve lines of her body as she tensed and untensed. Hungrily she clenched, wishing she could just hurry and start splitting herself but, no, patience. Be patient. Slow, slow swipes, gentle padding. She circled her own pleasure like a wolf stalks a deer, sensuous and brutal and inches from violence. In some distant part of her mind, the one that was still oh so barely human, she thought that this was wrong and she should stop. It was a quiet, weak thought and was drowned out by the siren song of thrumming blood in her ears.

Her control was weak, and soon it was frantic rubbing, slick spreading into a wet spread across her body, so vigorous were her ministrations. At that her peak came closer, and as she approached blissful apex she would stop and feel the thick, sticky sugary pleasure in her gut coil in aborted agony. Burying as many fingers as she could into herself she stretched as she came down from her not-orgasm she would imagine the last moments. The beautiful last moments of a hunt, and she would draw her nails (too sharp now, far too sharp for a humans) across her chest and stomach. She would imagine the stinging lines to come from her prey and he desperately fought for life and lashed out. At the thought of another scar marking her, another deep slice or shot another victory trophy, she almost came. 

As it were she was sitting in a puddle of her own making and picked up again. The sensations sharper and crueler now after the betrayal of her previous cessation and she rode that peak again before stopping. At this stop her muscles clenched and screamed at her, a scream of ‘let this complete’ and as she repeated this ritual she would say ‘no, never, there is no greater sin’.

Again and again, rise and stop, rise and stop. Every inch of her was taut, so tense as to come apart at the lightest touch. And still she dutifully rose and stopped, rose and stopped, rose stopped. She ached, deeply within her core, every nerve ending alight from the constant abuse of incompletion. Her eyes never left her prey. How could she ever go to anyone else, go to anything else for this spike of pleasure, the joy of pursuit and power (she thought of Basira, and felt guilt, but it did not last). 

And eventually she did sin, careful discipline shattering as rather than go for another round of denial she plunger her fingers into her, pumping so hard that it hurt, like bruising pressure but she unspooled from her pussy outwards and her orgasm was apocalyptic in how it made her quake and sob. Blood ran down her jaw from canines buried in lip and drool had long pooled in the cleft of her neck. Even as good as this, this violent ripping line along every nerve in her body, she was furious and unsatisfied because it had to end. She stayed like that, half awake as she rode the aftershocks, remaining buried in herself as the poor cramping muscles clenched and pulled. Eventually she rose, for she had to leave to avoid suspicion. She dressed, and the animal in her receded, Leaving her with guilt and a misplaced sense of duty.

Later, she would tell herself she imagined Basira. But she would be lying, she had imagining burying her hands (claws) into the preys intestines and rutting against his slick skull.


End file.
